Oh, thrice blessed Registry Office that had answered my call.
'Come in,' I said eagerly, and, leading the way into the dining-room, I
seated myself before her. With lowered eyes and modest mien I was, of
course, waiting for her to speak first. I did not wait long. Her
voice, concise and direct, rapped out: 'So you require a cook-general?'
'Yes--er--please,' I murmured. Under her searching gaze my knees
trembled, my pulses throbbed, a slight perspiration broke out on my
forehead. My whole being seemed to centre itself in the mute inquiry:
'Shall I suit?'
There was a pause while the applicant placed her heavy guns. Then she
opened fire immediately. 'I suppose you have outside daily help?'
'Er--no,' I confessed.
'Then you have a boy to do the windows, knives and boots?'
'No.'
'Do you send everything to the laundry?'
'Well . . . no . . . not quite.' I wanted to explain, to modify, to
speak airily of woollens being 'just rubbed through,' but she hurried
me forward.
'Have you a hot water circulator?'
'No.'
'A gas cooking-range?'
'No.'
It was terrible. I seemed to have nothing. I stood, as it were, naked
to the world, bereft of a single inducement to hold out to the girl.
'Do you dine late?'
At this point, when I longed to answer 'No,' I was compelled to say
'Yes.' That decided her. She rose at once and moved towards the door.
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